


Suitcase Shuffle

by Anonymous



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, The Social Network Reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In later years Donna will be pretty sorry Harvey graduated a handful of years before the Rise of Facebook. Harvey will tell her that the Winklevii aren't actually Armie Hammer twice, and that even if he'd represented them there would've been zero chance of setting either of them up with Donna, no, not both of them, no, not even if she'd promised to share. </p><p>Donna and Harvey met when they were twenty-three. All evidence from before that time has long been buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suitcase Shuffle

**Author's Note:**

> How long ago did I write this? 
> 
> Season one. I've seen more seasons, but haven't taken a lot from them on the grounds that I don't want to. 
> 
> This takes place before everything.

"Hi, I'm here for a job interview?"

Donna looks up, takes in the leather jacket, the jeans, the boots, the duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the slightly ruffled hair and split lip.

"And that," Donna hazards, gesturing at her face, "I take it that's the notice of termination from your last job?"

"I ran right over," the guy agrees. "How much time until my appointment?"

"Your name is?"

"Specter."

Donna pretends to check the appointment book just to watch him fidget from the corner of her eye. "It's now."

"Fuck."

"Which means it's in five minutes."

"Thank you. Where's the bathroom?"

"Down the hall, to the left."

The guy starts down the hall.

"You need the key," Donna calls.

He retraces his steps, nicks the keys out of Donna's hand. "I owe you," he promises.

"Everybody does," Donna says.

Precisely four minutes later, Harvey Specter walks in, shined leather shoes and slicked-back hair and tasteful two-button single-vent grey jacket falling just right around his waist. When Cameron turns around to lead him back into the office, Harvey tosses the keys discreetly back to Donna.

It will be a few years before The Best Goddamn Closer In The City bursts onto the scene, and by then nobody will remember Harvey Specter before he was Harvey Specter. Donna knows what he bought with his first paycheque though, and Harvey vows that one day he'll stop letting her get away with the things she does.

\---

Donna set a girl's hair on fire when they were both five. Nobody knows where Donna got the lighter. Donna doesn't really remember it herself, except that it wasn't the first time anybody made fun of her for being a redhead, nor was it the last. It was the last time she was sorry about it, though.

\---

Donna started out as a waitress in a fairly shoddy diner downtown. It was open until four in the morning, and she had to wear a plastic apron in a shade of dingy yellow that clashed with her hair in ways she hadn't known possible. She was seventeen, and in hindsight, it was this job that made her who she was. Working night shift when the drunks stumbled in, nobody cared how polite she was about anything. The manager, who spoke Farsi and about five words of English, shrugged off her lip -- the place wouldn't need a bouncer as long as Donna was around, and that was good enough for him.

She worked there before graduating high school, and she worked there after graduation, though she took a second job on top. The second job was at a local library, and she discovered three things there:

1) How to work the Ancient of Ancients, the first-model copy machine in the corner of the third floor that was only still there because the elevator was on the other side of the building and nobody wanted to haul it down the stairs;

2) A set of Shakespeare audio tapes recorded by a deep-voiced man named Barney Frogenstern over what sounded like a porn soundtrack (she took these out on an indefinite loan);

3) Everybody has sex in the Southwest corner bookshelves, but the actual place you want to have sex is the Northwest corner on the second floor behind the offices, where there are no security cameras.

She was hit on more as a librarian than she was as a waitress, and scored better dates. On the whole, she found library-goers more sober, better-educated and in a position to appreciate a good pair of shoes. On the other hand, nobody ever bought anything out of a library.

She quit the library job when she was nineteen and started working at a large bookstore in a high-end neighborhood. Three months later, she quit on a customer's advice and started working as a receptionist at a dentist's office. Three months after that, she quit working at the diner. To this day, if you ask about "Dawn", the manager will still smile fondly and yell over the counter about the nice girl who used to work there.

She didn't know it at the time, but that was the month Jessica Pearson found a kid in her law firm's mail room and told him to come back when he found a pair of shoes and a razor. He shot her a look, mouthed _aye ma'am!_ , and waited until she left, then went back to work.

\---

Donna studied drama in high school. It was the one subject she was outstanding in. She was the top of her class, but she didn't audition for roles. People conceded roles to her. The key, she learned, is to try not to ask for anything; you make it evident you're interested, you become good enough, and you wait for them to come to you. It's about hard work.

Most importantly, it's about hard work that nobody ever sees. If they see you earning something, it gives them the impression that they can be equally deserving through the same mechanism. You can't beat natural talent. You can't even try. The ideal is, you've had them beat since the day you were born.

All the best lawyers are actors. The illusion that they can know anything and everything about the law without ever cracking a book is what keeps them on top. And it is an illusion, one that Donna will eventually make it her pastime to dissect. When you work behind the scenes you can't help seeing the seams, whether it's the fourth misplaced cup of coffee that morning, or someone crying in the broom closet who will most definitely make partner ten years later at a firm across town. Across town being operative; if you're going to cry in the broom closet, you had better make sure nobody hears you, not even Donna.

Donna knows the importance of the illusion, which is why she always keeps her manicure perfect, why she'll be late rather than skip curling her hair, and why she'll keep her mouth shut when her supervisor asks her what her plans for the weekend are. _Going to see my parents and deal with their bullshit_ isn't an answer anybody wants to hear. _Not sticking around to lie to your husband about you being at the office_ isn't either, but that's the one that'll get her into the DA's office when she needs a reference. Always accompanied by a smile, of course.

\---

Two sorts of people do yoga: the well-to-do, and the want-to-be-well-to-do. Donna picked up the sport of the enlightened as soon as she had the time and the money. There's value in honesty, and it keeps her upper arms toned, and also she is fantastic at it.

She will one day move into a second-floor walk-up apartment down the street from about fifteen coffee shops and four yoga studios. It'll be a much nicer place than she can strictly afford, but Donna will be much nicer than the landlady can strictly afford, so they will negotiate an acceptable rental rate and everybody will be happy. Donna will arrive on the first of some month in spring, windows and doors all open and full of light.

She will put cheap vintage furniture in the living room, decorate the place with as much travel paraphernalia from places she's never been as can be said to be tasteful, and install gauzy pink drapes over the windows as a capitulation to whimsy. She will buy a strand of fairy lights and put them in place of the flowerpots on the windowsill. The bookshelves will be stocked with magazines and tattered old poetry.

Every morning when she gets the paper, she will throw away every section but fashion, business, obituaries and want ads. If anything else is worth hearing, she'll hear about it anyway.

She'll make coffee and eggs, and sit down in the kitchenette, and listen to the morning radio without some douchebag stumbling out of the bedroom in his briefs to remind her to lock the door on her way out.

\---

Donna actually liked Cameron Dennis for the first three weeks she worked in the DA's office. This was a mistake she promised to never make again.

The fourth week was when she found out why he needed to hire a new admin assistant in the first place. She'd have quit then, but she was looking to the future. Nobody stayed there if they didn't need the job. Besides, if you were on Bertha's good side, you were pretty much safe, and Donna was (is) on everyone's good side.

In the end she's glad she stayed. Someone needed to be there. Harvey will snort and say he'd have gotten the job anyway, but Donna is pretty sure he only says that to make her feel better, because his voice is a bit softer when he says so, _I would've,_ like _it didn't have anything to do with you._

\---

When they meet, Donna can get into about 65% of the VIP rooms in the city in fewer than three phone calls, while Harvey can get into about 55%. In person, this rate increases to about 85% for Donna and 70% for Harvey. Together they manage a rate of about 90% in total. At some point, taking into account connections made and lost, they will peak at about 94%, which is pretty good, considering there's a good number of venues in there that neither of them will ever even want to get into.

The Wall Street types don't acknowledge it, but there's a bit of a game there. Donna thinks it's a little like the boys she used to know in her old neighborhood, who'd show up with a broken arm every couple weeks falling off something, a bridge or a roof or a train. The game is inane. Neither Donna nor Harvey are in it for those assholes.

They both keep count, though. Not in the same way, exactly, but in the way Harvey has the same smile for the doorman of the Four Seasons and the hot dog vendor at the corner of Wall and Front. Donna understands, because nobody remembers Donna before she was Donna either.

\---

Harvey never tells her this out right, but Donna suspects the worst thing about Harvard for him was the questions about where he was from. Faking it can take you so far, but _what did your parents do_ is a perfectly legitimate question at Harvard, and after the first six months there, it's evident that you're either _something_ or _nothing._ This doesn't change how people view you, necessarily, but Harvey hates having all his cards on the table.

"'How does it matter how I pay my tuition as long as I can kick your ass?'" Harvey'd scowl. That story ended in the Dean's office. "Amen, sister," Donna'd say. She never needed to pay tuition, but if she had, she'd have said the same.

In truth, it doesn't matter in the end, but it is touch-and-go there for a while. You have to get to a position where it becomes indelicate to ask. Then you can go on faking to your heart's content.

\---

In later years Donna will be pretty sorry Harvey graduated a handful of years before the Rise of Facebook. Harvey will tell her that the Winklevii aren't actually Armie Hammer twice, and that even if he'd represented them there would've been zero chance of setting either of them up with Donna, no, not both of them, no, not even if she'd promised to share.

Mostly Donna mourns the missed opportunity that was Harvey Specter's college Facebook profile.

The other thing Harvey will point out is that if he had represented the Winklevoss twins, they would've won. Donna thinks a 65 million settlement might be fairly counted as a win, but in Harvey's view the real nail in the coffin was the IPO, and placing sixth in the Beijing Olympics in the interim only meant they could've done better.

\---

Donna's mom calls every so often. The conversations are uncomfortable, in that way with the awkward silences where both parties mean well but neither really knows what to say anymore. Yes, mom, I'm doing all right. I'll doing well. Yes, I remember. No, I quit that job. Is that what aunt Jodie's been up to? I didn't know. Oh, that's really nice. That's good.

It might sound like a strained relationship, but Donna would rather say that since she's moved out, they just haven't really found an excuse to connect. Her parents never say it, and she refuses to apologize, so they go on pretending nothing bothers them.

"Darling, you know you can come home any time," her mother says from time to time. Donna is fairly certain she means it.

Donna smiles, "I know, momma."

\---

Insofar as Donna makes it her business to know everything about everyone (and it is a job she takes very seriously), Donna has never really had trouble keeping her business and her personal apart. Things that are fair game to discuss include her wellness and beauty regimen, shopping excursions, occasional weekend retreats, television shows, exclusive parties, the fling she had with the cute drummer, the ass on that barkeep, select celebrity gossip, what's happening in the next department over, and everybody else's relationships. She shares these with delight. Things that are off-limits include her relationships, and any associated emotions.

People might assume she does it purposely to cultivate an air of mystery. That is untrue. It's just that they're never much to talk about.

It's a strange feature of her and Harvey's relationship that because of this, he has more or less learned to deduce what is going on in her life by what she doesn't talk about.

He never asks and never comments. If she asks for some time off, he gives it to her. If she's moving yet again, he doesn't ask why or where. On some eerie occasions, he knows where she's staying before she knows where she's staying. She doesn't approve of this because this makes him feel too much like the Donna in their relationship, and Donna is always the Donna, but Harvey says no, this just makes him the Harvey.

Harvey is perfectly willing to talk shit about her exes -- he has impersonal nicknames for each of them, like Yoga Instructor, or Grad School Guy, or Pharmacist Douchebag -- but only once she's stopped seeing them. Even if he has an opinion, he'll only maintain an impassive poker face about whoever she's seeing now. He's never surprised to see one go, and never curious about the next. Donna has a feeling he generally disapproves, but she appreciates that, and she appreciates that he never says it out loud.

In return, Donna doesn't talk shit about any of Harvey's exes. Whoever he's seeing at the moment is fair game.

He's thankful. If it were the other way around -- and sometimes it is -- Harvey'd do the same.

\---

Cameron always has dinner at the same time, same place, every Tuesday and Thursday night, eight o' clock PM sharp. They always have his table set aside, his drink made, and the special chef's specials ready for him. It's pretty impressive if you're not used to it. Cameron is not a bad dining companion, according to those who have earned the invitation in the past. A bit sleazy, but a great conversationalist, sharp wit, perfect memory, attentive as a hound if he thinks you're worth the attention. He only ever smiles at you if he has plans for you. Donna imagines he might've been fun if he hadn't been the worst.

"See you tonight," Cameron would call as he headed out the door.

"Dinner with Beelzebub?" Donna would say, typing away at her computer.

Harvey would grab his jacket, give her a look. "Two years," he would remind her.

\---

There's an old Latin maxim that finds its roots in the philosophy of Book III of Plato's Republic, wherein Socrates discusses the impossibility of maintaining a political system free from corruption. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Donna can translate for you. Who puts away the asshole who puts away the assholes?

This is her way of asking where Harvey's Knight in Shining Prada was during this whole time. Harvey would be the first to tell you, there is no such goddamn thing. Jessica did exactly as much as she could, which was more than Donna knew.

Years later, that won't stop him from being careful when he picks up a kid named Mike. Though Donna doesn't catch on to what he's doing _immediately,_ she sees the way he holds back, sees how conducts himself cautiously, does his due diligence when nobody's looking. He's learned a few things about what he should know.

\---

Harvey is the only one who has ever managed to get Donna to break her policy of not pulling all-nighters on anything work-related. She doesn't do it often. It began one night when she couldn't lock up because Harvey was still emptying the filing cabinets at half past six.

Officially, the office closed at 5, but Harvey was still low on the food chain and exceptional work took exceptional hours. It was miserably common to arrive at the office in the morning and find him in the file room still looking over the crates he went in there with the night before. Donna eventually figured out that while Harvey would go home to prep for trials and depositions, the pure research and gruntwork -- and anything else that he didn't need beauty sleep for -- he was okay doing on the office couch. He was also okay eating whatever was in the office fridge in lieu of dinner, which meant Donna had to make sure there was something in there every day other than Pop Tarts, just for her own peace of mind.

She'd stood by the door with the keys in her hand, watching as he rummaged torso-deep through a cardboard box.

"Are you looking for something?" she'd said.

"Request for disclosure, number 4157782, two pages, dated June 15," Harvey said, muffled by paper.

"Any idea where it might be?"

"Somewhere in this room," he said.

"Precise," Donna said.

"Well, I can tell you, if there's a file it's supposed to be in? It's definitely not there," Harvey said, emerging from his box, irate. "Are you going to help me or just laugh at me?"

Donna let the smile steal across her face and giggled deliberately.

Harvey rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about it. Just lock up the rest and go." He turned back to his search.

Donna looked at his shoulders, his back, expensive crinkled shirt and pinstripe trousers adding no poise whatsoever to a man who just looked like he'd rather be out with a beer. He reminded her of the boys back home, the ones who grew up and got their shit together, but never really shook off the uncomfortable set of the collar against their necks.

She dropped the keys on the table and hoisted out the crate of files closest to the opposite wall. "I'll start from this end," she said.

Harvey stared at her for a very long time.

"Are the police after you?" he eventually said.

"Can't I just want to help?"

"No," Harvey said.

Donna shrugged. "I've got nothing on tonight."

"What happened to Frank?"

"It's over. I moved out."

Harvey looked at her, surprised. "Where are you staying?"

"Hotel."

"Oh."

There was a few moments of silent paper-shuffling.

"Are you looking for somewhere else to stay?"

"Why, are you offering?" Donna said, as suggestively as possible.

Harvey laughed. "I would, actually, but I have a feeling you're a better assistant than you'd be a roommate."

"You mean you know I'd turn you down."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to have to," Harvey said. He smiled and Donna wished for a second she didn't have to.

Harvey said, "I just know how it's like moving around. If you need somewhere to keep your things, or kitchen space, or if you've got a goldfish or something. I've got room."

Donna wondered how it was possible for such a self-absorbed douchebag to not realize he was actually a nice person. Would he crumble, if anybody told him?

"I need a raise," Donna suggested.

"Done."

Donna narrowed her eyes. "You don't have the authority --"

"I don't?" Harvey said.

"Get to work," Donna told him.

The next night, they ordered food in at the office, cracked open a few beers, and Donna surfed the internet while Harvey drafted documents to send to her for printing. At two in the morning they took a break to play Scrabble, until they realized there were no goddamn vowels, and it turned out half of them were in Harvey's shoes while the other half were hidden in various places on Donna's person. They called a truce then.

\--

One week when they're twenty-four, Donna's boyfriend leaves a scuff mark on her face.

It is Tuesday afternoon. This means she'll be wearing an inch of concealer all week, which pisses her off to no end, because she only uses the best and it is not cheap. She leaves the boyfriend on Tuesday evening, which means all her belongings will be sitting in Harvey's front foyer by Wednesday night. Her parents haven't called in a while, thank God, because they won't be getting hold of her at her old number. She'll get a new one soon, or -- more likely -- she'll give them her work one, since that's where she is most of the time these days.

Harvey gives Donna the day off on Wednesday and forces her to take it. This means his work will be backlogged for days. He has to fix the copy machine more than once after kicking it in frustration, and the office voicemail is full because he doesn't know how to erase the messages. Some poor summer intern is called in to handle matters, but spends most of the time sitting on his hands, because everybody knows you don't touch Donna's space, and if they don't, Harvey makes it doubly clear to them.

Harvey is particularly vicious in court on Thursday morning, because he deals with stress either very well or very badly, depending on whether you measure his performance with the yardstick of a healthy, socially-adjusted human being, or with the yardstick of an attorney. He wins the case, of course. He always wins.

Donna returns on Thursday afternoon. Harvey comes straight into the office, strides right up to her desk, and drops about fifteen file folders on it with a hapless look on his face.

"Donna, I need you --"

"When do you not?" Donna says, and he gives her a loathing look.

 _Don't even,_ his expression says, and he runs his fingers through his hair, then attempts to slick it back into place. The sad attempt lasts until Donna stands up and smacks his wrist. She licks her finger, twists a strand and tucks it behind his ear, and he buttons and rebuttons his jacket and goes in to meet the witness, no more than fifteen minutes late. Donna goes back to filing.

Two thirty in the afternoon, the filing is done. Donna has even fixed the labels Harvey has fucked up over the last two days, names and numbers in the correct fields and everything. Three, the voicemail is cleared out, messages sorted by urgency, relevance, and _'don't answer this'._ Three thirty, Harvey sees the last visitor out. He smiles and shuts the door. He looks at Donna and makes a cutting motion across his neck. Donna makes a note in the appointment book. _'Mr. Whittaker: asshole. schedule his meetings at start of day.'_

By four, Harvey is leaning against her desk, and they are arguing passionately about the quality of the drag in the Charlie's Angels movie. They have just about decided whether or not they would do Drew Barrymore as a man when Cameron walks in the door. It's four fifteen, and Donna isn't sure why he bothered.

Harvey straightens, not even a little bit thrown off. "Cameron," he says, pleasantly surprised. "Thought you weren't coming in today?"

Cameron hangs up his jacket. "How'd it go?"

He's talking about the trial, of course. "How'd you think it went?"

Cameron smiles. "That's my boy," he says, unbuttoning his shirtsleeves, and he turns and walks into his office. Harvey doesn't need to be asked to follow. Donna sits for another three minutes watching the closed door until Bertha asks her for something.

Four forty-five, Harvey emerges, grabs his paperwork from his desk, tosses out his leftover coffee, gathers his jacket, pulls several files from the cabinet, and wordlessly leaves his house keys on Donna's desk. He goes back into Cameron's office. Donna stays until six, six thirty, seven anyway, then leaves at seven thirty.

Donna eats salad for dinner, switches on the television for a while, and goes to bed.

Friday morning, Donna gets up at four. She rolls out of Harvey's bed, showers, and picks an outfit from several of her bags, leaving the rest of the contents strewn across the sofa. She blow-dries and curls her hair just so, applies another layer of war paint, puts on her earrings. There's an apple in the fridge in the kitchen. She puts it into her purse. If she'd slept she'd have an appetite, but she picks up tea on the way.

Harvey arrives at eight thirty. His hair is untidy and he's wearing the same suit he was the day before. Donna doesn't remark on this. He changes into his spare suit in the copy room, and if he looks a little more exhausted than usual, well, that's what the coffee is for.

They don't speak all morning. Nobody comes in on a Friday. Harvey's doing case prep work with his feet up on his desk, absently drawing circles on documents like he's doing a wordsearch. Donna types correspondence, prints it out, types more correspondence, prints.

Lunch at twelve, Harvey steps out for about twenty minutes. When he comes back, he sets a BLT on sundried-tomato with light mayo sandwich on her desk. She accepts this. She hands him a stick of hair gel from her desk drawer in return, which he takes gratefully.

One, two, three and four pass without event, and they suffer bravely through these, calling it quits around six thirty. Harvey shrugs into his jacket, catches her eye. She shuts down her computer, scribbles some notes and leaves them at the appropriate desks, while Harvey locks up the filing cabinets. They turn the lights off and step out to where a cab waits by the curb.

Harvey surveys the mess in his living room with chagrin when they get back. Donna shrugs, unapologetic. She kicks off her heels and goes in search of something strappier. He changes into a different shirt. They're out the door by eight, and both of them know this is going to be an alcohol-for-dinner sort of night.

\---

They get into the bar and they're home.

Harvey is the next big upcoming baseball star, the owner of a hot new billion-dollar tech start-up, a visiting scholar from Oxford. Donna is an heiress from an obscure European country, headmistress at a prestigious private academy, a former Olympic gymnast. Every twenty minutes, Donna gets up from whatever conversation she's having with the latest sucker to buy her a drink and pretends she'll be back. Every twenty minutes, Harvey pockets another coaster with someone's number on it and pretends he's going to call. They meet by the bathrooms in the back, make eye contact, nod their heads to indicate their targets, and rotate places. They play it right, who's disappointed?

By the time it's midnight, half the bar is in love with one or the other of them, possibly both. They're in this game to win.

At the end of the night, Harvey empties his pockets of phone numbers, Donna downs her last martini, and both of them stumble out. They kick each other's shins all the way back to Harvey's apartment, drag each other up four flights of stairs when the elevator doesn't come fast enough, and crash through the front door, muffled swearing filling the air as both of them trip over the suitcases in the hall.

There's wine and pizza in the fridge.

"What's on this," Donna says around a mouthful.

"Bacon and other meats," Harvey says.

"I don't like you," Donna says.

"You gonna call that guy with the Ferrari back?" Harvey says.

"Up to you, it's your number he's got," Donna says.

"What?"

"What?"

Donna steals the wine from his hand.

They break something, possibly a glass. It's left in the sink, pizza box on the counter. Donna tries to unzip her dress for three minutes before Harvey takes pity and unzips it for her. She struggles out of it, then dives headfirst into his bed -- "You didn't make the bed," Harvey says, scandalized, and Donna says, "What, like we were going to have someone over?" -- and burrows into the pillows. Harvey follows shortly, nudging her to one side. They settle in and pass out, limbs tangled.

\---

Saturday morning, Donna's leg is asleep and Harvey's elbow is jammed under her stomach. She lifts her head, squints at the light coming in the window. There's barely any traffic noise. It's quiet for Manhattan. Harvey's found an okay apartment, in a decent corner of the city.

She almost rolls over and goes back to sleep. But Harvey is looking at her drowsily, dark eyes lit up in a strip of the sun. They look reflective, distant.

His hair is sticking up in six different ways. She reaches over and tries to pat it down, but that just makes it all stand up, spastic gold-tipped spikes. He tries to duck away, but ends up leaning into her hand instead, and she tries not to smile, but she does.

"What the hell do you do to it?" Donna says, amazed. Her voice comes out as a croak.

"Nothing," Harvey says, and his voice is hoarse as well. "Didn't want to use the shit at Cameron's place."

"You're the only person I know who has higher-maintenance hair than I do," Donna says.

"Fortunately, you're here to maintain it for me," Harvey says. With long-suffering effort, he retrieves one bare arm from beneath the pillow, unhooks the one earring Donna has still somehow got on her ear, and deposits it on the nightstand with its twin.

He frowns, and after a minute, reaches over and strokes her cheek lightly, just above the bruise.

"Is that still there?" Donna says.

"You know it is."

"Great, so we both know," Donna says.

Harvey looks remorseful and withdraws his hand. He collapses back into place.

They stare at each other.

"Aspirin?" he says.

"I'll need it when I get up in a minute," Donna says.

"Five minutes?"

"Thirty."

"Thirty it is." He throws an arm over her and presses his face into the pillow.

She shifts, and after a moment, his arm slides down around her waist. She reaches down and twines her fingers through his, thumb brushing against knuckles that are still bruised from scuffing up her ex-boyfriend's jaw on Tuesday night.

His shoulder is cool against hers. She takes a minute to gather her hair into a loose coil at the base of her neck, cautious not to disturb him. Then she buries her nose into his chest, and they doze off.

\---

Harvey's flipping through papers when she hands him a coffee for the first time. He takes a swig and does a double-take.

"What the hell is this?" he says, frowning at the cup.

"Like it?" Donna says.

"Yeah," he says.

"Good," she says.

"What do you want?" Harvey says.

"Nothing," Donna says. "It's just an experiment."

"What the hell is in this?" Harvey repeats, concerned.

"Relax!" Donna says. "Just buy me a coffee next time."

Harvey brings her a tea the next day. He sets the steaming cup in front of her with equal measures of caution and pride, and Donna lets his disregard for her instructions go.

She sniffs, takes a sip.

"Chai latte. Cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, half a tablespoon of honey?"

"How the hell do you --" Harvey cuts himself off. "Like it?"

"Yes, I do," Donna affirms.

"Good," Harvey says. "Any messages for me?"

\---

There are lines you don't cross.

You just run alongside each other, parallel, indefinite.

As long as it takes.

 

 


End file.
